Memento
by redtoes
Summary: What if Josh and Mallory had a history? COMPLETE. Please R+R
1. Five

Five  
  
By Redtoes  
  
Authors Note - Let's assume that Josh is 39 at the time of Galileo (approx). Let's make Mallory early/mid thirties, so that's about 5 years between them. My thought is that if Noah Lyman and Leo McGarry were "old friends" then Josh had to have known Mallory when they both were growing up. And so what if Josh and Mallory had a thing when they were younger?  
  
Disclaimer - they're not mine. None of them. And that really is a shame.  
  
Spoilers - General season 2 up to Galileo and Noel. Takes place during Galileo but with strong hints for Noel.  
  
Feedback makes me happy.  
  
  
  
  
  
"How's she looking?"  
  
"She looks good."  
  
"Can you describe what she's wearing?"  
  
I shouldn't have asked that, I mean god knows Sam and I are close but I don't think he needs any hint what I think of Mallory, or what I thought of Mallory. I mean, name me a guy who asks his best friend what the girl he's chasing is wearing. And yes, I'm aware that was a confusing sentence. Toby would be here with an axe if he had any idea the levels my mental grammar stoops to.  
  
But I still shouldn't have done that.  
  
And now Donna's here.  
  
"You should put him on a stamp," she says, offloading files in one hand and flicking through my organizer with the other.  
  
"I know," I sigh, "it's not that simple." Nothing's that simple. Nothing's ever that simple.  
  
"Make it that simple Josh," she says, looking at me with that look. That look that says she has complete faith in the fact I can do it. I hate that look.  
  
I hate it.  
  
Because if I think about it for even a second I'm left with the thought that this world is full of beautiful women I can't touch.  
  
But then I love that look. It gives me hope, and god knows there's been little hope round here for a long time. A long time.  
  
"Josh?"  
  
"Yeah," I'm back, I'm here, I wasn't just thinking about you and me and all the things I can't have.  
  
"Put him on a stamp Josh." I watch her bustle about my office, tidying, sorting, doing all those organization things that are so far beyond my reach. Like her, like Mallory. Far, far beyond my reach.  
  
"I thought we decided you were gracing envelopes this time." I say, leaning back in my chair. I'm relaxed, I'm cool. I'm not thinking depressive, heartrending thoughts.  
  
"Next time," she smiles, "I'm next time."  
  
"Yeah," but it's less of an agreement than an acknowledgement, jus something to say.  
  
I watch her drift out of my office, out of this dully-lit pit of a room into the open, golden, human space of the bullpen.  
  
"Put him on a stamp," she yells over her shoulder. Always has to have the last word. I smile. She becomes more like me every day, or maybe she's more like herself. Stronger, tougher, more independent that the fast- talking acutely single college drop-out that talked her way into my office in New Hampshire. She's completed. Confident, sure of herself, and more beautiful than ever.  
  
I remember many beautiful women. I've known many beautiful women: in politics and in life. But a few stick in my mind, refuse to leave:  
  
Suzy Jacobs, this girl I met during my Fulbright year at Oxford, an English rose with freckles, a slightly upturned nose and enough strength to take on the college over their sex-discrimination policies despite her fear of losing her perfect record. She kissed me in the rain the day she got formal notice of her eviction from halls. She then slept in my bed for a week, while I lay on the floor and tried to work up the courage to sleep beside her.  
  
Andrea Carlson, junior year at Harvard, a writer with dreams of her own place, her own words and her own book. She wrote dark short stories about children, about sex, about family breakdowns. I was warned away, but I got involved anyway, and learnt that you can't save everyone. Some people just don't want to be saved. But she's married now. A housewife with three kids and two dogs. Every now and then I get poetry in the mail, and I know it's from her. Her husband doesn't approve, but I get poetry talking of home and love and hope. After Roslyn there was a small bunch of flowers that came with a card and a manuscript. She'll never publish it, but I've read it. I know.  
  
Julie Lennox I dated through Law School. To this day I have no idea if it was anything more than sex and the need to research and argue our points before, during and after class that kept us together. She was all passion and opinions. Works for NOW and when she's in town to berate the hill, we have drinks and continue the same decade-old arguments.  
  
As to be expected, perhaps. Name me a guy in his late thirties who doesn't have three amazing women he's had to consign to the past. I've got five, and here's the kicker, the one no one expects -  
  
Mallory McGarry.  
  
Summer after Law School I started in the office of a friend of her fathers. She was finishing up her education degree at Georgetown while I learned the skills of a political operative on the hill. I'm not sure what that was, we talked, we laughed, we smiled. I gave her a refuge from Leo's decline and her mother's controlling presence. I was family without the baggage - we had, after all, played together as children. We knew each other.  
  
Family without the baggage.  
  
I kissed her once, while we drowned our sorrows in a bottle of whiskey on the banks of the Potomac. One night. Nothing more. She took her mother's maiden name and a teaching assignment in New England the next week. Next time I see her I'm working for her father trying to elect an unknown liberal democrat Governor from New Hampshire into the Oval Office. Time after that she's chasing Sam.  
  
But I'll always wonder, you know? She'll be my best friend's wife and I'm sure as hell not in love with her, but I'll always wonder.  
  
I'll always ask how she's looking. I'll always tell Sam not to give up. She's worth it.  
  
I'll always wonder.  
  
"JOSH!"  
  
Ah, the dulcet tones of Donnatella Moss.  
  
"JOSH!"  
  
I shift my tired body across the office to lean against the doorframe.  
  
"Trying your hand at role reversal Donnatella?"  
  
She turns in her chair to grin at me.  
  
"Just practicing for the day I'm your superior Joshua." She's already my superior in every way that counts.  
  
"Like that'll ever happen," I scoff, "What d'you want?"  
  
"The President's due back from the Kennedy Centre in twenty," she says, "He wants an update on Galileo."  
  
"And the rest?" I query thinking about that damn stamp.  
  
"And the rest," she pauses, waiting for my comment.  
  
"I'm gonna put him on a stamp Donna," I admit.  
  
"Really?" There's hope in her tone.  
  
"Yeah." I shuffle slightly on my feet. "But not because you told me to."  
  
"Of course not," she grins, "Why would you ever listen to me?"  
  
"I wouldn't, but then you never stop talking." I soften the words with a smile.  
  
She still smiling, her entire face lit up by this small joy of putting a guy on a stamp. Happy that her faith in me has been justified. For Today. She takes pleasure in the small victories, all too aware that the larger battles are building up and there's little she can do when they hit.  
  
Tomorrow I'll disappoint her and she'll do her best to hide how her face falls. Do her best to disguise the pain she feels at my acerbic comments or irrational anger. She'll humor me, disguise her distress with a joke, maybe call me Deputy Downer for a few hours, but she'll hurt tomorrow.  
  
Today this is all I can give her. A stamp. A little bit of hope that all her faith is justified. A tiny sign that I need her, find her more valuable than she ever could have imagined.  
  
"Twenty minutes?" I query.  
  
"Fifteen now."  
  
"Okay," I say as I retreat back into my office, "Remind me when it's time."  
  
I've got fifteen minutes to brood. Fifteen minutes to think about Suzy and Andrea and Julie and Mallory. Fifteen minutes to think about the four of the five women who have made my life interesting and just won't go away.  
  
I can't think about the fifth. Because if I fall in the way I think I'm going to I can't take anyone with me. I need to do it alone.  
  
And Donna deserves better.  
  
So it's Suzy and Andrea and Julia and Mallory and Donna. Five women I've loved and love. Five beautiful amazing challenging independent women I can't touch.  
  
I wish I could.  
  
But I can wonder. I can hope.  
  
I hope Suzy changed the world, and Andrea will one day publish her book, and that Julie will rise to the top of the ranks and challenge perceptions of feminism everywhere. I hope that Mallory will give Sam a chance. Sam who would adore her and love her and give her the chance to teach her own children about the world.  
  
I hope that Donna never loses faith in me. Never loses faith in herself. I hope she gets whatever she wants and live a long happy life with someone who's allowed to love her. Someone better than me. Someone else.  
  
I'll even dance at her wedding, though part of me doubts I'll make it that far. Not the ways things have been going regularly. Not with the nightmares creeping up on me that I have to bat away with the better memories from my youth. I'm afraid that I'm starting to lose the battle.  
  
But I'll still wonder.  
  
Still hope.  
  
Still dream.  
  
About five beautiful women I'm not allowed to touch. 


	2. Four

Part 2  
  
By Redtoes  
  
Authors note - This series is going back in time from Mallory's last appearance (and yes I know she's in the season 4 opener but I haven't seen anything past mid season three) in Galileo. Part of this chapter is a post- ep for "Six meetings before lunch".  
  
Disclaimer - they're not mine. So please don't sue.  
  
  
  
"So then she asked Leo if she could have lunch with me."  
  
Sam's practically bouncing with glee.  
  
"She asked Leo?"  
  
"Yeah," he grins, "and he came clean about that position paper she was so riled about."  
  
"The school vouchers thing?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sam lifts the beer bottle to his lips and takes a swig. The amount of sheer joy and good humour radiating off this guy could power like an island. Or a submarine. Something large at any rate.  
  
"So it's going well?"  
  
"Yeah," his grin gets even wider if that's possible, "really well."  
  
"Great," I reply, somewhat stiltedly, "that's just great. You two would be great together."  
  
But if he notices any strangeness in my language he doesn't say anything.  
  
"You should ask her out." I add.  
  
"I did," he says, "Dinner tomorrow."  
  
"Dinner tomorrow," I echo.  
  
"Yeah." Man, I swear he gets any more upbeat, he's gonna hit the ceiling.  
  
"So things are good?"  
  
If it's possible, his grin gets even wilder. "Yeah."  
  
So it's about this point when I'm trying to remember if I ever had that same grin, that same ecstatic, hopeful look that he's wearing right now. I wonder if I ever looked at the world that way, if I ever looked around the room and let people see how good life is at this particular moment.  
  
I look across the bar, past the stacked up bottles and busy staff to the long mirror on the wall. There's a guy I can see there, with wild hair and a few more lines on my face than last time I looked. He's sitting beside a slightly younger guy who's glowing with good-humour, glowing with the joy de vive or something. I look tired. I look old. I look -  
  
Older.  
  
******  
  
"Woah Josh you look old!"  
  
I know that voice. Sure enough that same elfin face is grinning at me in the mirror. The same hazel eyes and porcelain skin, the same shock of red hair. The same smile.  
  
"Mall?"  
  
"Hey Joshua, miss me?"  
  
"Always," I say, turning to pull her into a hug. "Always."  
  
"Woah Joshie," she gasps, "need to breathe."  
  
"Just testing my manly strength," I pull back to grin down at her, "And don't call me - "  
  
"Joshie, yeah, like I'm ever gonna stop doing that? And since when do you have manly strength book-boy?"  
  
"Hey," I reply, mock-insulted, "I have a life."  
  
"Yeah, which is why you're here playing pool on a Friday night." She spreads her hands, indicating the empty bar and battered pool tables. "Nice life Joshie."  
  
"Can it Red," I reply testily.  
  
"No way." And she looks so much like she did ten years ago, all burning with righteous indignation and that supreme level of confidence she has that I have to hug her again.  
  
"How's your family?" I ask when I finally pull back, leaving just one arm hugging her shoulders.  
  
"They're okay," she dismisses, "How about you and yours? Any problems?"  
  
"Nah, Dad still works all the hours he can, loading up the new associates with crap, while Mom's dropping me bi-monthly letters with requests for grandkids and the odd pair of shoes attached."  
  
"She's asking for shoes?"  
  
"No," I correct, "she sends me shoes. Doesn't have enough faith in my to get out to a shop by myself."  
  
"Well," she says, "who would?" And suddenly I don't think this summer's going to be quite as dull as I first thought.  
  
I watch Mallory move about the room, relaxing with her three friends, chatting to the bar staff, even flirting with the acquaintances I came here with. All my life I was in awe of this tiny slip of a girl who could make anyone feel at ease with her. Ever since we were kids I would envy the way we'd both be dragged to political mixers and parties crammed with aging lawyers and she'd just woo the room, while I'd watch jealous from behind which ever book I could find.  
  
I never had the social skills as a child to enjoy the occasions I was dropped head first into the adult world. I couldn't enjoy it, especially after Joannie's death and all I'd get would be those "poor little guy" stares, and a few "it's a damn shame" conversations being held over and above me. But Mallory, she always breezed through that shit, often taking me by the hand and leading me off towards where the "other kids were".  
  
I was 8 when Joannie died, which means that Mallory must have been what, 4, 5? And still she was my savior.  
  
Just always knew how to deal with people I guess.  
  
And so now I'm living in DC, where I've always wanted to be. And I'm done with Law School, which is great because do you have nay idea how dull that stuff is? Like really, dull, totally dull, without a spark of anything even remotely interesting. And I'm interning on the hill now (Mallory's father actually set that up, I wonder if that's how she knew how to find me?) and you know, it's a new place, a new life. I'm using the skills I gained from volunteering on campaigns throughout college and getting through life past the age of 8. And it's good, but somehow it feels like it's lacked something until now.  
  
Maybe someone.  
  
It's been three months since me and Julie called it a day, and at the moment stuff just lacks focus. I got a place, complete with crazy room- mates and an overweight super, I got a job, with late night hours to make up for the lack of money I earn on the hill, and I got career prospects. Coz as much as they call this an internship, it's more like a graduate post - I get through the first three months and I'm on staff. I've been here six weeks and so far I can hack it, I'm ahead of the crowd. Suddenly people are watching me, and now, it's for the right reasons.  
  
"Mall!" I call across the room, "Come here."  
  
She grins and tosses her head, like an independent colt or something. She doesn't obey any order, not even from her father.  
  
"Come on Red, I'll buy you a drink."  
  
Bribery, however, she responds to.  
  
"A coke." She announces imperiously as she saunters across the room.  
  
Right. Girl doesn't drink that much. Probably a hold-over from watching someone else. Forgot that.  
  
"Coke it is."  
  
The order arrives the same time that she does.  
  
"This is nice."  
  
"Really," she questions, "how?"  
  
"How is this nice? It just is. Two old friends catching up."  
  
"Josh you're practically my cousin."  
  
"Cousins can be friends," I pursue. "And we should, you know."  
  
"Be friends? Catch up?" She smiles.  
  
"Yeah. What you doing this weekend?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Want to help me move in to my new place?" I ask. "You can criticize my choice of home, furniture and colour scheme."  
  
"Am I allowed to pass comment on what I can only imagine to be the very amusing site of watching you drop all the heavy stuff you're supposed to be carrying?"  
  
"If you must."  
  
"I'm in," she says.  
  
"Great," I grin. "Now come on, I need a partner if I'm gonna beat Derrick and Satch here at doubles."  
  
"I don't play pool."  
  
"Today you do," I say picking her up around the waist and carrying her towards the table, doing my best to ignore the squeals and flailing arms.  
  
"Put me down Josh!"  
  
"Play pool with me!" I reply, ducking under the path of her right arm.  
  
"I suck at it." She cries.  
  
I lower her to the ground with a grin.  
  
"So do I. Come on," I say taking her hand and leading her towards the table, "take a chance. You might be surprised."  
  
"Whatever," but she takes the cue when I offer it to him. "You wanna lose, I can lose."  
  
"Hey," I smile, "Tonight I don't care about losing. I just wanna play." 


	3. Three

Three  
  
By Redtoes  
  
Author's note: Here's another segment in this little story of mine. The time line is a little confusing, in case you hadn't noticed it yet.  
  
The "present" is based in or around the 1st season episode "He shall from time to time", that also includes Sam and Mallory's first kiss. The "past" storyline, is moving forward, after the meeting in a Georgetown bar that brought Josh and Mallory back into each others lives.  
  
Disclaimer - not mine, at all, just the idea is. Please don't sue, I barely make rent as it is.  
  
"Don't go for the geniuses. They never want to sleep."  
  
I mean, man. There are just some things I never want to hear. Ever. And Abbey Bartlet dropping hints about her and the President's sex life. Suddenly there's a teenager shrieking "Euw!" somewhere inside my head.  
  
There are some things I just don't want to hear.  
  
"You've got an itch for Sam Seabourn."  
  
I do not. I just..  
  
I appreciate him, or something about him. I appreciate him. I appreciate the things he's done. Like writing a statement defending my father. Like putting the love and support and friendship that one man feels for another and putting it into words. Words the president will use in my father's defence.  
  
I appreciate that. I really do.  
  
******  
  
"Well now I'm even more confused," Sam splutters. There's more that comes out of his mouth. Something about loving being a writer, but I just don't register it. I'm too caught up in watching Mallory cross the room to kiss him.  
  
I'm watching it right now, right this second. My mind replaying the moment, stretching those seconds into minutes, into hours.  
  
Mallory kissed Sam.  
  
Twice.  
  
Once as a Thank you, and once as. something else.  
  
Mallory kissed Sam.  
  
It's oddly painful.  
  
It shouldn't be really. He's my best friend, and I've known her since she was born and if there are two people in the world who deserve happiness more than these two, well I don't know them. Sam could love her. She could love him. I'm staying out of this.  
  
But I keep replaying the memory in my head.  
  
She kisses him, as a thank you. Then there's this pause, this realization before she kisses him again, and this time it has nothing to do with thanks, this time it's about something deeper, something heavier.  
  
Something else.  
  
God I can almost taste her perfume. She still wears the same scent and I can remember walking into her apartment, her flat-share, her place, stumbling over boxes as I carry Chinese take-out across a cluttered carpet in the dark and -  
  
*******  
  
CRASH!  
  
"Aaarrgghh!"  
  
"Josh?"  
  
"Aaarrrgghh!!!"  
  
Suddenly the light flicks on and I'm visible in the middle of the floor, covered in take out.  
  
And Mallory can't stop laughing, her petite frame contorting with her guffaws. She's holding her stomach with one hand and pointing at me with the other. It's like a still life, "woman laughs at man on floor wearing Chinese food".  
  
It's really not funny.  
  
And I tell her that.  
  
"Oh it is Josh," she gasps between giggles. "It really is."  
  
And she's grinning. And it's wonderful. I can't remember the last time I saw her smile like this, laugh like this. Of course I haven't ever worn take out for her benefit before but still. To see this woman, this girl I've known for years that's always been so somber. To see her laugh like this, it lifts my heart.  
  
"Okay Red," I've let her laugh herself out, now she's collapsed against a wall making those weird little half whimpers-half giggles what women make, and I think my time as object of amusement is over. "You gonna help me up or what?"  
  
"Maybe," she replies, her face still split in that grin. "But not until I find my camera!" And with that she scampers, and I mean scampers, she moves like some small hyperactive mammal on a sugar high, off to her bedroom, leaving me on the floor.  
  
I know I sighed. I suspect I cursed a little.  
  
But I waited. Mostly because I wanted to see that smile again. I loved the idea that I, so socially inept at times, had been able to make the solemn, serious character that she was smile so easily. Well maybe not easily on my part, wearing kung pow chicken at this point, but she smiled. She smiled.  
  
And she looked beautiful when she smiled.  
  
******  
  
She still looks beautiful when she smiles, but it's so rare these days. Donna told me that Margaret worries about Leo and Mallory. This is the closest they've been in years and so much of it is because Jenny left him and Mallory's afraid he'll start drinking if he's left alone. I disagree but I've learned to listen to the assistant grapevine on those rare moments that Donna shares it with me - they're usually onto something.  
  
They're wrong this time though. Leo doesn't drink because he's alone, and be driven to a bottle on the basis of where Mallory is. He goes of his own free will and drags himself away by his determination and damn stubbornness. I've never met a more stubborn man.  
  
But then Mallory ran away when he hit his worst. I don't think she's ever forgiven herself for that, and so she's here now. Rebuilding her bridges. Shepherding her father in his time of need.  
  
Defending him to the hilt.  
  
Kissing Sam.  
  
As a thank you.  
  
God I need to get that image out of my head.  
  
"DONNA?!"  
  
I need a distraction. Any distraction.  
  
"Bring me that info on grazing rights."  
  
But still the memories come.  
  
******  
  
"Tell me a story," she says one night as I walk her home along the banks of the Potomac.  
  
"A story?" I raise my eyebrows.  
  
"Humor me Josh, or one day when you're rich and famous... the ghost of the Kung Pow chicken might make it to the Washington Post." She's still grinning, but she's tucked under my arm and my coat, trying to keep warm in this December wind.  
  
We walk like lovers, or family along the path. Every homeless person she sees she gives a dollar to. The benefits of a rich youth; she always carries money for those who have none, and spends so little on herself.  
  
"A story," I think, wandering through the archives of my memory, trying to find something appropriate, "Any preferences?"  
  
"No, just something true."  
  
I look at her huddled beside me. We really should be walking faster but I savor these moments. They make me feel human and loved. Though to walk with a girl under your arm at two in the morning may be a romantic image to some, the bitter wind of a Washington winter says we really should be moving faster.  
  
"Okay," I concede, "A true story." I pause, considering. "Once upon a time there was a young and foolish boy."  
  
"Called Josh?" She asks.  
  
"Shh, it's my story," I chastise, "And he was lonely. He'd lost his best friend when he was very young and he didn't know how to make any others. And then one day he met this angel, this red-haired freckled angel."  
  
"I do not have freckles."  
  
"Deal with it. And this angel took him away from the bad people who made him feel like a freak and made him feel safe. She made him smile, and made him happy, and later, much later he realized she was beautiful and that made him happy too."  
  
I have no idea where I was going with this, except that I was gonna make it funny, but somehow I'm here, paused on the banks of the river, with my red- haired angel staring up at me.  
  
"Josh," she starts, but is cut off when I place a finger against her lips.  
  
"Let me finish the story Mal."  
  
She nods her agreement.  
  
"So this boy, he realized that sometimes the angel wasn't all that happy as he thought she was." She's not, I come round unexpected and find her with tear tracks down her cheeks and an unwillingness to discuss it. She hasn't mentioned her father the entire time I've been here, and he's barely two miles across town. She's not happy, not happy at all.  
  
"And he decided that now he had to be the angel, and make the girl smile. And so he did, quite spectacularly, by tripping over her mess and landing on the floor covered in Chinese food. And she laughed and he was happy. Though he was damp, and realized that some of this stuff stains and he hates doing laundry."  
  
She giggles softly, the tension of a minute before lost as she settles herself back under my arm and walks with me towards home.  
  
"Do I get to call you Angel now?" She teases.  
  
"No"  
  
"How about kung pow boy?"  
  
"Sounds like I should be in a comic strip somewhere saving metropolis."  
  
"And wearing mutli-colored tights," she adds with grin.  
  
And together we walk, but I could have kissed her back then. Do I want to? She's practically family, her father would kill me. If he ever found out, which seems unlikely the amount they've been talking recently.  
  
But do I want to kiss her?  
  
I don't know. 


	4. Two

sMomento: Two  
  
Part 4 of 5  
  
Author's note - it's been a while since I've updated this little fic, mostly because the amy/josh relationship in the third season just made me want to slap him (and her), and as such I was never quite in the right frame of mind to write the fourth chapter in this nice little bit of fluff that is Momento. I apologise if there was anyone wanting to read it, but as I've only gathered one review (whimper) for this on ff.net so far (sob) I'm not too bothered about disappointing anyone (evil grin). Maybe part four will encourage a few more readers to add their comments. I'd love to know what you all think.  
  
Disclaimer - they weren't mine when I started and they sure as hell aren't now.  
  
Spoilers - nothing in this series moves past Noel. Due to bad scheduling and the delay in the release of DVDs I've only seen about half the third season, though I'm an avid reader of televisionwithoutpity.com and therefore have a clue as to what's going on. But for all intents and purposes, if it happened after Bartlet for America, I haven't seen it and therefore it doesn't exist in this fic. Sorry if that makes anything awkward but that's how it stands.  
  
Author's note 2 - the show part of this tale is from Enemies. I also had to edit part of chapter 3 so I apologise for any confusion this might cause. Rest assured it's sorted now.  
  
So without further ado....  
  
Two  
  
The thought makes me grin.  
  
Chinese opera  
  
I mean Chinese opera.  
  
Not that I actually have anything against Chinese opera, promotion of intercultural understanding and out continued mollifying of the last major communist power on the planet not with standing, but still, Chinese opera.  
  
I can see why he's happier writing a birthday card for some guy in agriculture or something.  
  
Weird.  
  
Because even though Chinese opera is well, Chinese opera, he turned down an evening with Red when she walked into his office looking like that.  
  
Not Red. Mallory. Mallory.  
  
She doesn't answer to Red anymore.  
  
I kinda get the feeling she might stab me with one of those damn heels if I even made an illusion to it.  
  
Maybe I could get around that if I called her Ginger?  
  
Maybe I could avoid intensive care if I just kept my mouth shut for once?  
  
Yeah, that works.  
  
But anyway, Chinese opera. And Mallory. In a dress like that. And he just sits and writes a birthday card - a birthday card! - while she goes off for desert with her father.  
  
At least it's not a drink, a small voice in the back of my head sneaks out. At least he's not -  
  
No.  
  
I will NOT go there.  
  
Leo doesn't drink anymore. Leo can't drink anymore. Leo hasn't had a drink in years, apart from -  
  
But we don't count that.  
  
It might be barely eighteen months ago but we don't count that. Ever.  
  
Because Leo doesn't drink.  
  
Neither does Mallory.  
  
But for entirely different reasons...  
  
******  
  
The house is festive when I arrive, wallpaper hidden beneath colourful decorations, tables festooned with handmade cards, each inscribed to Miss O'Brien, ribbons and bows hanging from every picture frame and door knob.  
  
If I didn't know better I'd think Jenny's taste had been ambushed by Santa's elves the garishness of Mallory's classes offerings clashing horribly with Jenny's understated décor.  
  
It's quite a sight.  
  
They've a houseful tonight - every congressmen and aide in search of a favour wanders these halls, prominent democrats sipping eggnog in every doorway, Jenny's society acquaintance (I doubt even she counts them as real friends) working the room. I'm amazed anyone has room to breathe let alone move, but this throng of the DC rich as powerful is constantly mobile, bodies shifting as if on castors between each other, everyone desperate to spread the gossip or earn a favour from someone more influential.  
  
It's ridiculously overwhelming, and I serious consider rescuing my overcoat from which ever of the domestic staff has spirited it away and running for the hills.  
  
Until I am, as ever, half tackled, half embraced by a familiar redhead.  
  
"Joshie!" She cries as she attempts to break my ribs in one of things she calls a hug. "You came!"  
  
"I did," I manage, breaking her grip far enough to mock glare at her, "And don't call me Joshie."  
  
"Don't call me Red," she responds with a toss of her hair.  
  
"You've never minded before," I press, surprised at her refusal of the nick- name.  
  
"Hey," she says with a grin, half yelling over the noise of the crowd, "you can't be the only one placing restrictions on terms of endearment."  
  
I raise an eyebrow. "Joshie is not a term of endearment, it's a term of embarrassment."  
  
She laughs at that, her eyes sparking.  
  
"If you didn't care so much," she points out, "I wouldn't do it."  
  
I'll give her that. This girl, more than any other, has been able to sneak under my skin, and only the mental mantra of "she's you friend and besides her father would kill you" has prevented me from doing something foolish.  
  
Like kissing her.  
  
Not that that would be foolish so much as wonderful, but that's not what either of us need right now, not when I'm the only stress-free part of her life.  
  
Not when I can tell that she thinks of me as a damn brother and nothing more.  
  
I think.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Oh hell I don't know anymore.  
  
"Deep thoughts Joshie?"  
  
I grin down at her as I abandon yet another Mallory-related internal monologue. I seem to be having a lot of those lately, and none of them has helped in the slightest beyond pointing out the continuing state of confusion I live under.  
  
"You know Red," I offer tapping her nose, "have to keep up with the Jones? Or would that be the McGarry's?"  
  
"The O'Brien," she corrects, "but nevermind that." There's a hesitation in her smile as she continues, "Dad wants to introduce you to some people so I was sent to keep watch for that hair of yours."  
  
"What about it?" I fight down the instinctive urge to run my hand through my messy locks.  
  
"It's the easiest way to find you in a crowd," she shrugs, taking my hand and leading me away from the escape route of the front door, "Come on, he's in the den with Uncle Jed. I think he wants rescuing from some lecture."  
  
I have no idea who Uncle Jed is but anyone Leo McGarry needs rescuing from obviously can't be good. I try not to shudder as the diminutive redhead leads me towards one of the scariest men I've ever met, and whomever it is he can't get away from.  
  
******  
  
You'd never believe she was in her twenties the way she bewitches a room. It's a strange trick, a combination of matriarch sharpness and little girl innocence. She can just make people smile by her nearness.  
  
It makes her a wondrous teacher.  
  
God I'm ever jealous of her school kids.  
  
Focus.  
  
By now Mallory and her magical aura have isolated the unknown Uncle, removing him by a mixture of a few scarily academic questions and the total use of those eyes in demonstrating how he has her full attention.  
  
Lord help those children if they ever try and get one over on Ms O'Brien over there.  
  
Leo regards me shrewdly, glass in hand.  
  
"Josh."  
  
"Sir," I resist the urge to shift on my feet. This man, for all that I gained a few inches on him in college is single-handedly responsible for half of the cities political machinations, not to mention the initial stages of my career on the hill. Only a fool would underestimate him.  
  
He regards me, those flinty eyes taking in my appearance as shrewdly as ever, despite the tumbler in his hand.  
  
I know Red hates him drinking. I know he's slowly drinking himself to death. But when I see that constant shrewdness, alert and awake even under a haze of whiskey I sometimes wonder if I could stand the full focus he must have when sober.  
  
"Mallory tells me you're enjoying the hill," he says sipping his drink.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Red talked to her father? When? How? She's only here tonight for her mother.  
  
My confusion must be obvious, as he sighs and looks away before continuing.  
  
"My wife tells me," he amends, "that our daughter says you're enjoying the hill."  
  
"Yes sir," I reply, and let the conversational shift to the house, and Wiseman and the Texan Democrats. It's a far easier subject to let flow than the complicated relationship between this man and his daughter.  
  
She's only here for her mother, and despite the "Dad said" excuse to bring me through, I doubt they've spoken a word to each other that hasn't been outlined by the public perception rule book Jenny imposes on the two of them.  
  
They talk. But they never say anything.  
  
It's been that way for years.  
  
I scan the room subtly for a glimpse of her, but see only the faces of the establishment, the hallowed halls of government, these people I should meet, greet, talk with. Maybe even gain a few favours somewhere along the line.  
  
I smile a little awkwardly at the first dignitary I'm introduced to.  
  
This is gonna be a long night.  
  
Maybe I can find her after it.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 4.  
  
Reviewers are wonderful people. Really you are. 


	5. One

One 

**By Redtoes**

**Part 5 of 5**

Disclaimer: Still not mine.  

Author's note:  Woah.  The end.  Thanks to all who reviewed – it was truly appreciated.

Spoilers for_ Mr Willis of Ohio_.  

"The President's daughter, the Chief of Staff's daughter, a Georgetown bar and Sam.  What could possibly go wrong?"

******

Why did I ever think this was a good idea?  I'm besieged.  Besieged by women.  Besieged by Mallory.

CJ's not exactly un-intimidating either and let's not even get started on Zoey – that girl knows far more about me than anyone related to the President should.  And it's all entirely as a result of her staying sober (as is legal) while the staff drinks.  

The President's youngest daughter has in the past threatened me with photographs she claims to own of our campaign stop in Las Vegas.  I really hope she's lying.  I'm sure I didn't drink that much.  

I hope I didn't drink that much.

God just the thought of it – 

The look Zoey has in her eyes right now as she threatens Sam about Laurie is exactly the same she has when she mentions those damn photographs.  Oh this is not a good sign.

I watch Mallory laugh with the rest of us.  It seems strange this companionship, this acquaintance friendship we have now.  She feels perfectly within her rights to tease me, but is reluctant to bring up anything of substance.

Maybe it's because she's chasing Sam.

Maybe the past is as much of a memory to her as it is to me.  I often feel like the young man who played pool, collected take-out and sat up all night taking about nothing with younger version of my boss's daughter was someone else.  Over a decade has passed and who are we now – friends who tease, old loves?

Or just two people who almost had something but ended up letting it go.

Sam looks really worried now.  Perhaps I should warn him that Zoey is not to be trifled with – the kitten, as she has so aptly termed herself in the past, has teeth.  And sharp teeth at that.  With enough brains behind them to sit perfectly comfortably amongst her father's staff, not one of which is within a decade of her own age.  I wish I'd had that confidence as an undergraduate.  

Yeah, Zoey can hold her own, and maybe it's about time that Sam learns that.

I watch as the subject of my thoughts slips off towards the bar, determined as ever.    

Charlie's question catches my attention, pulling me back to the present with a jolt.

"What's a panic button?"

I mumble something about the President's notorious overprotective nature as Mallory chimes in that she's "seen it in action".  When has she?  

I would have taken Zoey and Mallory to be friends.  For one there's a decade between them, and a world of difference between the lives of the a schoolteacher and a college student, despite the close friendship their father's share.  I wonder if that's it – they've become cousins by proxy or some such word.  Not unlike Mal and I in our younger years.

I wonder why I never met Zoey, or Ellie or Liz for that matter.  Leo and my father being so close at one point it seems strange that we – 

Silently Charlie leaves the table, followed a few seconds later by Sam.  What the hell?  It doesn't take me more than a second to follow, grabbing the panic button as I do.  

Mallory and CJ start after us, but I've only got attention for the scene in front.  

As the three frat-boys are dragged off by the secret service I'm left with the warm glow of a job well done.  I turn, perhaps intending to share this with the others, but see Mallory first.

She's grinning.  An evil smile I recognise only too well.

*******

The wide smile under her firebrand hair looks strange to me in this light.  Too sloppy perhaps, for such a girl, such a women, as Mal.  Definitely far too minx-like for someone who claims to be as nice as she.

"Joshie!"

That was the only time I've ever been knocked off my feet by somehow half my size.  And twice my worth.

Also possibly twice my alcohol intake at this point.

I squint up in the darkness, trying to make the face mere inches from mine make……sense.

This is she.  She is thus.

She's sitting on my chest swigging from a brown-bagged bottle.  My back aches from the impact of the concrete bare moments ago, my rib cage from the manner in which she's treating me like a unusually person-shaped chair.    I can feel the dampness of the DC December snowfall making itself known through my coat.  I need to get up.  Dry off.  Get my breath back.  But - 

Mallory…….is drunk.  

This can't be real.

"Red?"  I venture.

"Hmmm?" She's too distracted by the laughter of my former roommates to take notice of me, her chair.  After all it's not every day a petite red-head tackles a guy then uses him as a convenient place to park for a while.  Derrek and Pete are laughing it up.

I roll my eyes at them before returning my attention to the matter at hand.

"Red?  Could you possibly, like, stand up," I croak, "soon?"

"Oh," she says, eyes wide as she takes in our relative positions.  "Sorry."  And with that she stumbles to her feet, drunken hands straightening her skirt and hair.  

I'll admit it takes me a few seconds to get to my feet.  I hate to think that at 27 I'm this easily winded by a _girl_ but it seems to be the case.  My ribs throb slightly and I rest my hands on my knees, taking the weight of my upper-body for a few necessary seconds.

I raise my head to find her staring at me with an odd look on her face.  Something between contemplation and caring perhaps.  Something I haven't seen etched on her features before.

She arches an eyebrow at me and I feel myself grin in response.

"You two good?" Derrek asks from what seems a long way away.

"Smashing," the redhead savours the word, sounding out all the syllables in a bad British accent. 

"We're good," I reassure him.  "I might see you later okay?  I'm getting Red here home."

Derrek smirks, but Pete drags him off before he can make any further comment and I'm left alone with the drunken pixie that is Mallory McGarry.

"So," she drawls softly, "Happy New Year."

"What?"  For a second there I forgot the date.  "Yeah, Happy New Year."

"I wanna see the fireworks," she announces, then grabs my hand, leading me towards the paving stones that lead down to the river.  She ditches the paper-bagged bottle in a trash-can after a loud torrent on it's empty state.  

I let her, giving her full control to choose our path, still in shock at her drink-addled state (not to mention some of the words she just used) to raise any coherent objection.

*****

The bench she chose was awkwardly comfortable, though that eased as we shared the contents of her hip flask.  Once that is, I got over the complete shock I felt at Red carrying a hip flask.

And being drunk.

When she doesn't drink.

I shift on the hard wood.  We're sitting on the back of the bench on this New Year's Eve, our feet rest on the snow-speckled slats.  I want to ask so many questions right now – the how's and why's of the liquor in her hand.  I want to know what drove her to drink.

The most I've ever seen her touch is a light beer.  And only half of it at that.

It's not that she won't, or doesn't drink.  I suspect her aversion has more to do with her father than anything else.  Sometimes she drinks for appearances sake – a glass of wine perhaps, or a cocktail closer to virgin than anything else.  But drunk?  Mallory?  That just doesn't happen.

Except tonight it did.

"So….." I start, unsure of where to go from here.

The word hangs in the air.  She ignores it, offering me the flask instead.

"Another?"

"Sure."  The whiskey burns as it slides down my throat.  I don't drink much – hard spirits hit me, well hard – but I can feel the drug in my system, the alcohol in my blood.  I feel almost reckless, but still too sober to truly enjoy myself.

"What time's it?"  She asks, staring out across the cold expanse of the Potomac, her manner suddenly quiet, introspective.  A Harsh contrast to the teasing drunk of earlier who knocked me to the floor and sat on my chest.

"Eleven thirty.  Ish."

"Not long til midnight then,"  she sighs.  

God I hope we haven't hit the morbid part of the evening yet.  I'd have liked to have celebrated the new year before I got depressed about the old one.

"I'm leaving," she says softly, so softly I almost miss it.

"I'll walk you home," I offer, but I know that's not what she means.

"I'm leaving DC."

"Huh."

She turns to me, her face strained, honest pain stretched across her features.

"I need to go, get away from – everything."  I read that to mean her father, but stay silent.  I'm not sure my words are of use here.  "I've got a job, a small school in New Hampshire.  It looks good." Now she's searching for affirmation, for support.

I grunt.  Not much but it's all I can offer right now.

"I'm going tomorrow," she finishes, staring out across the water again.

Noise drifts down to us here, the lively din emanating from the parties at the Kennedy Centre easily heard across the water.

I think for a second, wondering why she told me this now, here.  Wondering if the reason's she drinking is anything to do with me.  With leaving me.  

"New Hampshire's pretty," I offer finally,  "less crime."

She smiles, but it's a sad expression.  There's melancholy in her eyes that remains untouched by the curve of her lips.

Without thinking I bring a hand up to cup her chin, and she tilts her head, letting my fingers rest against her skin, slip into her hair so smoothly. 

"Josh," she whispers as I drop my mouth to hers.  

She's soft.  Sweet.  Outside of the world of politics yet tasting of whiskey a drink that will for me, always carry associations of the hill, the game, the offices.  

For a second we deepen this kiss.  Then she pulls back, her eyes bright with emotion and tears.

"Josh."

I love the way my name sounds on her lips.  But I also know that tone.

I smile a little awkwardly as she reaches up a hand to my face.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"I know."

We stand there, staring at each other, caught up in this moment that seems to last forever – 

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The noise triples instantly as the world celebrates and we break apart almost in shock.

Did that really just happen?

I look at her in this light, under this moonlight, this starlight, surrounded by this snow.

A sudden realisation comes to me and I almost smile at the ridiculousness of this situation.

"You're not going to say 'Come with me'." I state softly.

"And you're not going to say 'Stay'," she replies.

"I might," I offer.

"No."  She smiles.  "We're not….." She trails off searching for words that don't come.

"We could have been," I say softly, though I know she's right.  Now that I've been here, touched those lips I'm at peace and suddenly aware that _this_ just isn't possible for right now.   

She seems to see this in my eyes, and so she slowly raises herself on her toes to brush her lips over mine.  

"You're not going to say something like 'we'll always have Paris' are you?" I tease, as she withdraws.

She grins.  "No."

"Okay."

And suddenly that grin becomes evil.  

"I'll always have photographs Josh.  You and Kung Pow.  Nice couple."

Before I can help myself I'm laughing, almost bent double at the thought.  She joins me, taking my arm, and the two of us walk side by side along the Potomac towards our futures.

Maybe I'll kiss her goodbye tonight.  

Or maybe it won't matter.  Because she's right, though I'd phrase it differently, that many moments from these last months have been memorable.  

I'm just going to have to destroy those photographs one day.

*******

"You know I still have them," she comments offhand as I try to get her a cab outside the bar.  I need to get back to the Whitehouse to deal with the Presidential slapping that's probably going to come my way for activating Zoey's panic button.

"Have what?"  My attention is elsewhere, I'll admit it.  I'm trying to figure out exactly how to phrase the words I'll be saying to the president later.

"The photographs?  Josh Lyman versus the Chinese take-out?  Ring any bells?"

"Oh," I feel a strange mix of elation at the memory and deepest fear at the physical evidence.  Does every one of my boss's respective daughters have embarrassing photographs of me?  I don't know Ellie that well – but then maybe she's the exception that proves the rule as I'm sure Liz caught me tripping over Annie's bike on the Bartlet family camcorder.

"Don't worry," she says with that mischievous glint in her eye – the one that makes her look about 13 again – "I won't tell."

"Good."  I try to compose myself as a cab pulls up.  Deciding that chivalry now might save me later I hold open the door for her.

"Good memories Joshua," she offers as she gets into the car, she leans in.  I expect a kiss on the cheek and am surprised to hear her whisper, "I'm sure Sam'll find them hilarious."

And she's gone.  Door closed and car departed in a swish.  Though I can still hear her giggles.

I can't help but grin.

Dear god if that girl still has that kind of effect on me then heaven help Sam.

For the first time I find I don't quite begrudge my best friend his shot at our boss's daughter.  

Sam and Mallory.  Sam and Mal

It seems to work, somehow.

I allow myself a grin as Sam and CJ pull me towards a taxi bound for the White House.

All is well.

*********

End.

Here ends my first West Wing completed story.  Please let me know what you think.  I appreciate any and all comments to help me improve my writing. 


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